"I never keep any songs that other people have, so I am obliged to guard my spécialités under lock and key,"—and she held out her arm to Colonel Dashwood to unclasp a bracelet, the medallion of which opened on touching a spring, and disclosed a gold key.
Colonel Dashwood retained the wrist while pretending to examine this miracle, and Kate shot one of her dangerous glances out of half-closed eyes.
A personal assault upon Dashwood would have been consonant to Harry's feelings at the moment. He was not yet quite proof against twinges of jealousy about cousin Kate, who was now turning over the leaves of her book with an unconscious air.
"This song Mr. Forsyth brought me from Mexico. Such crabbed copying, only an expert could read it; so I merely scribbled down the words, and made him sing the air till I had caught it. That Charley Dacre got from a boatman at Venice; and this little Troubadour thing" (sentimentally) "was composed by a friend of mine, who has promised never to let any one possess it but myself."
"I hope you bought up the whole edition," put in Harry.
"And here—even you, you dear, unmusical boy, are represented. Do you remember it, Harry?" (playing a few bars.) "The air you were always whistling, and said the sailors sang at watch."
"Yes, that was it," said he, with brightening eyes. "How could you recollect?"
"Well, when you went to sea I got somewhat plaintive and dull; used to hum it about the house, and set down the notes."
"But these are not the right words."
"Oh, no," said Kate, casting down her eyes with modest candour; "they are my own."